After a brief sojourn in Germany – and a nod to the Spanish Pyrenees – Garrett Fisher headed for the Swiss Alps to undertake a high altitude adventure in a humble Piper Cub…
9 June 2020
One has to ask just how my crazy idea came about in the first place. I can trace it to a moment in July 2013. I had just flown my 1949 Piper PA-11 from North Carolina to the Colorado Rockies. At the time, it was a minimum day VFR instrument aircraft with no radio, transponder, or starter, and one fuel tank. After frog-hopping for three days across the US from fuel stop to fuel stop, I plunged over a pass at 13,000ft and proceeded to figure out how to land and take-off at an airfield 7,500ft above sea level. Prior to this escapade, I was skilled neither at cross-country nor mountain flying.
Having recently moved to Summit County, Colorado, I sat one evening, after a thunderstorm, at a German-styled restaurant on Main Street in Frisco (9,100ft elevation), looking on mountain ridges between 11,000ft and 13,000ft high, and I said to my wife: “I want more than this. These mountains aren’t rugged enough. I really would like to live in the Alps.” She, as usual, looked at me with an empty gaze – and went on eating her mustard-infused, pseudo-Germanic pretzel.
“The Pyrenees were a welcome respite, as the place looked substantially like Wyoming and Utah, though they were
far windier”
Over the next 29 months, before the aeroplane was disassembled and shipped to Germany, I would fly precisely 499 hours, crossing the US twice more, flying to all 58 peaks which were higher than 14,000ft in Colorado, every remaining glacier in the US Rockies, and more national parks, mountain ranges, wilderness areas and high terrain than I can even recall. Suffice to say, I got somewhat skilled at mountain flying in this little aircraft, learning how to ride all sorts of winds to rather significant heights without killing myself.
“Germany? What kind of self-respecting person would move to Germany?” Yes, I know, I got caught by the bug of apparent German heritage, a message preached often by my (thoroughly American) grandfather, who was a significant aviation influence in restoring the PA-11 and taking me flying since I was two years old. The subtext that I missed in his frequent speeches about German authority (audible only if the police dogs he imported from Germany stopped barking), was that he had never once set foot in Europe and thought my idea was stupid. But alas, once I get started on something, I rarely quit.
The thing is, I was moving to an area outside of Frankfurt, as a result of a friendship made because of a Piper Cub sale my grandfather made to a German engineer. I would be hours by air from the Alps. Even if I wished to remain in the Fatherland and in the mountains, a tiny sliver of German territory was available for such a purpose, devoid of suitable airports.
Nonetheless, in the autumn of 2015, as I was spending prodigious sums of money to install equipment to render the PA-11 adequately convenient for its use in Europe, I decided to research what it would take to overfly Mont Blanc, France at 15,774ft, which was 1,344ft higher than anything I had overflown to date. Choosing to ignore most of the horrors of European aviation, which would have put an end to this charade before it got started, I became aware that most countries require a transponder to be on at all times above certain altitudes – and this would certainly be the case in the Alps. While researching which one to purchase, I ran into an issue – Class 2 transponders are certified to 15,000ft, so I sprung for a testicle-frying Class 1, which is good to 50,000ft.
Germany was a spectacular failure for me. To make matters worse, my sister had a DNA test done and found out that we are 12 per cent German and substantially Polish which, while ignominious, explains some things. At any rate, seven months after arriving in Germany, I pointed the nose of the PA-11 south-west, and despite knowing next to nothing about French aviation, I crossed the entirety of France over the course of two days, arriving at my new home in the Spanish Pyrenees. The weather on the flight down was rather foul, so much so that I could barely make it down the Rhône valley, rendering any illusions about flying in the Alps as nonsensical.
The Pyrenees were a welcome respite, as the place looked substantially like Wyoming and Utah, though they were far windier, with grandiose mountain waves and rotors. What skills I thought I had perfected were honed to a far greater degree after hundreds of hours of flying in all sorts of conditions.
The problem during this time was that I did not hear encouraging advice about flying in the Alps. My assumption was that the height and severity of the Alps meant that winds blew with an unholy fury at all times, with virtually constant overcast or precipitation on one side or the other of the range. Many days when the Pyrenees were pleasant, I would note on satellite maps how the Alps had menacing weather blowing in…
Pilots didn’t necessarily help either, as I was harangued with frequency about ‘the Föhn’. The concept of ascending and descending air is not a new one to me. In fact, the Pyrenees are a mountain wave factory and yet I kept hearing words of caution about the ferocity of winds in the Alps. I assumed that those warning me were making a relativistic statement based on my experience in the Rockies and the Pyrenees, so I trembled in my boots at the thought, procrastinating and not making the six-hour flight.
The problem is partially due to the fact that I cannot do things in small amounts. My two options are to go full blast or not bother. Since I had developed a routine of flying to, and photographing the highest peaks in various major mountain ranges as recognised by various official lists, I had set my mind on the 82 peaks that were more than 4,000 metres high. To merely bumble around the Alps to say ‘I did it’ was not an option – it was ‘do’ the whole list or skip it.
A pilot friend of mine who had a place in Switzerland was persistent that I should come for a while. I eventually took him up on his offer and arranged a three-month stay, two-and-a-half years after arriving in Europe. It took a few months to arrange hangar space in Sion, getting accustomed mainly to how the Swiss approach pricing. I must confess that, when one asks the Swiss how much something costs, the emotional response at hearing their answer is slightly more intense than receiving a swift kick where it hurts most…
As the day approached for our temporary move to Switzerland, I developed a pervasive neurosis about the ability for the PA-11 to exceed the height of Mont Blanc in the summer heat. In the Rockies, I was stationed at airports varying from 5,633ft to 9,927ft, with an 18-gallon tank, which meant much less of a period at full throttle to get to mountains above 14,000ft. However, I would be attempting one that nearly reached 16,000ft, and I would be doing so from a starting point of 1,582ft – and in the summer heat. Even in the Rockies, I often used favourable winds to complete my ascent above 12,500ft. So. How was this going to work?
I decided to perform a trial run in the Pyrenees. Picking a 30°C day, I took off from 3,609ft and climbed, using engine power alone, to 16,000ft noting oil temperature, pressure and time at each 1,000ft interval. It took 54 minutes to get to altitude, with minimal climb ability left. Toss in another 2,000ft and I determined that unless I got some helpful wind, I’d probably just barely be able to pull it off before having to turn around and head home.
On the way down from the test run, I heard someone broadcast on the radio ‘…glider crash in Andorra… transmitting coordinates in the blind…’. Arresting my descent, I pointed toward the described location, found the wreckage and handled communication with ATC, now associating a bit of trauma with my pre-existing neurosis. Was that the end of it? In the week prior to my arrival to Switzerland an astonishing 28 people died in three separate aeroplane crashes, inclusive of the infamous Ju-52 accident. The death toll was increasing in both mountain ranges, yet somehow I planned on picking off the highest 82 peaks?
Another bit of advice I received was that the afternoons tended to produce towering cumulus clouds and thunderstorms during alpine summers, so I should basically ‘be done by noon before the crap starts developing’. Familiar with North Carolinian convective rage on a daily basis, I was sceptical of how things would go arriving in the early evening, on a sweltering hot day crossing France. I decided to stop in Chambéry, just at the beginning of the pre-Alps, to afford a full fuel tank to deal with whatever may occur for the final crossing.
Despite a variety of dramatic misinformation and large thunderheads north of Lyon, I decided to at least try and conquer my fears and enter the Alps over Chamonix, sideswiping the Massif du Mont Blanc, so I could at least see the terrain I intended to conquer and desensitise my neurosis. Fortunately, the plan worked. As I overflew Chamonix at 11,000ft, steep mountains to my left were just below me, with elevations normal to the higher peaks of the Pyrenees. To my right, terrain rose in a seemingly vertical fashion into towering cumulus clouds, with the largest glaciers that I had seen in my life spewing out from beneath. It was love at first sight and I was instantly hooked and was like a moth to a flame.
For my first flight originating in Switzerland, I struggled with haze and afternoon towering cumulus, which aside from blocking terrain in instances, also makes for poor lighting. On a partly cloudy day, I decided to take a spin in the Alps, specifically intending to avoid any of the ‘4,000ers’, as I was associating too much drama with each flight. While I had dosed myself initially with a tad of Mont Blanc, it seemed like a good idea to remind myself that much of the Alps can be similar to the Pyrenees. As I overflew Lake Geneva and the Chablais Alps on the west end of the lake, I abandoned basic terrain in the 8,000ft level to head toward the Massif du Chablais, which has glaciated peaks topping out at 10,686ft, a mere 500ft lower than the highest peaks of the Pyrenees.
What happened next, I did not expect, given the weather forecast. Mont Blanc was basking in the sun, visible from 25 miles away, without any of the nefarious convection that I expected over the peak, although many of the smaller peaks were ensconced in weather. As I slugged along at full power in a cruise climb approaching this monolithic, ice-clad monster, I still struggled to process the magnitude of what I was looking at. From the bottom of the Glacier des Bossons to the top of the ice-cap summit, a wall of ice appeared in excess of 10,000ft from tip to toe. Mesmerised, I sideswiped the north side to stay out of convection, topping out at roughly 13,500ft, at which point I realised that I was only wearing a tee shirt and was quite cold…
“As I slugged along at full power in a cruise climb approaching this monolithic, ice-clad monster, I still struggled to process the magnitude
of what I was
looking at”
On the next flight, properly prepared with a coat, I had a hankering to check out three of the 82 peaks near Grand Combin (14,154ft) on the Swiss and Italian border. As I reached the first ridge at 7,000ft, south-west of Sion, it was evident that a cloud layer was forming a skirt over some of the ridges deep in the Valais. While I could not see what was above, I expected to be able to exceed the cloud deck and find some of the peaks I was looking for.
Just south of Verbier I managed to see some more glaciers and peaks peeping at me at 9,000ft. On clearing 10,000ft Grand Combin exploded into view with a bang. Awestruck, I flew around the peak, reaching about 14,000ft, with clouds forming and dissipating below.
While that was all that I expected, it was not all that I saw. The Matterhorn was clearly visible to the east, with a sea of undulating rocky summits, clouds and glaciers beneath. If there ever was gnarly territory to fly over, this was it. I pointed the nose to the east, arriving at the Matterhorn for the first time at summit level (14,692ft), circling the majestic peak, and then looking straight down on the summit. Both Grand Teton, Wyoming and the Matterhorn look very similar from the south-west in the Cub.
The Matterhorn isn’t the only salacious attraction near Zermatt in the aircraft. It is an epicentre of 4000ers, of which I enjoyed a few, including Dent d’Herens (13,684ft), Dent Blanche (14,295ft), Ober Gabelhorn (13,330ft), a bit of Dufourspitze (15,203ft) and the like.
After an evening swirling over glaciers and peaks above the clouds, it was time to get back to Sion, as 8pm was the airport’s closing time in the summer. Besides, I could barely feel my fingers, as I forgot to bring gloves. I should know that 15,000ft is bitterly cold, even in summer, though take-off temps of 28°C do something to the mind. I found a hole in the cloud deck, swirled down below, and cruise descended in a majestic and steep valley, watching chalets go by on both sides. You have to love Switzerland…
My next flight attempt exposed the fact that one of the magnetos completely died on the prior flight, so much so that the engine wouldn’t even sputter on it. It is a sobering thought what could go wrong, though ‘that’s what dual ignition is for’ – at least that is what I told my wife. With it up and running two weeks later, I was able to get into the air after a summer snowfall down to 9,000ft, where I conquered the Jungfrau (13,642ft) and surrounding peaks. On the south side of the Jungfrau lies the Aletschgletscher, the longest glacier in continental Europe, at 14 miles long. Whatever majesty I perceived on Mont Blanc was smashed by the magnitude of this monstrous feature, which I confess induced fear, and stayed rather high above it.
That merely laid the groundwork for the next attack, which was to fly roughly 800ft above the Aletschgletscher and nearby Fietschergletscher. I have a philosophy that no matter how permanent things may seem, each flight is an opportunity, and I do not know if I will see the same place – or the same place in similar conditions – again. It takes a lot to get an antique aircraft in the air on another continent, so one is wise to celebrate what is available when it comes along.
In keeping with that philosophy, I abandoned my normal neurosis about fear of engine failure and decided to spend some time wandering over the glaciers and firns that fed the Aletschgletscher, then down the massive river of ice itself, at altitudes that would have been, suffice it so say, inconvenient should the engine decide not to work. Whatever fears I had were set aside and replaced with pure majesty – the scene was something out of Alaska. I must confess that it is difficult to judge depth in such an area. There were no trees in visible range, so the mind has to interpret the size of rocks, ice falls, avalanches and crevasses. Is it the size of a chair… or a bus? Is that crevasse just a crack, or an aeroplane-swallowing abyss? Some of the shots I shared with friends confirmed the illusion. They thought that I had landed on the glacier, when in fact the image was taken 800ft above it. Quite a number of times flying towards inclining terrain, things appeared fine. Then suddenly it looked like I would fly smack into the glacier. Undulations in the glacier’s surface make for interesting illusions.
I added many more flights into the mix, as some of the areas with groupings of 4000ers had so much going on that a few flights were needed to ensure that I photographed enough of the peaks, or that I got a few that had been hiding in orographic cloud formation. While that was the case, I still had two items to check off my list, getting above Mont Blanc and addressing four peaks which were set in three specific far-flung areas, two of which required fuel stops to cover the distance.
On the first, to Gran Paradiso (13,323ft) in Italy, I managed to get enough lift from orographic wind to notice Mont Blanc sticking out above the clouds from the south. This was a welcome angle to approach, and I rode the winds for the first time to 16,000ft, finally above the peak. There was something I learned in a few different places – with enough vertical terrain wind will go around it, as supposed to up and over, which makes for a confusing menagerie of air currents, most of which do not help blow the Cub high enough to get the job done. I had flown near Mont Blanc a few times, chugging at full power for 90 minutes, realising the aircraft didn’t want to climb in summer heat. Yes, I could have photographed from below, but the goal was to get above the summit, which finally happened after two months of Alps flying.
The other two areas were Écrins, France (13,458ft) and Piz Bernina, Switzerland (13,284ft), both of which came at a good time in early autumn. As I flew the spine of the Alps both south-west and east on brilliantly sunny days over much longer distances, early snows at high peaks were set against bright hues of shrubs and grasses changing colour above timberline. This was where I had the strongest feeling that I was where I belonged since Colorado and Wyoming, where scenery had autumnal commonalities.
Finally complete with the task, I had a few weeks to play with as autumn began to set in. I had been told that the weather in Switzerland becomes ‘inhumanely foul’ in autumn, as though it was the Outer Hebrides during a January storm. So I plotted my escape and pointed the aeroplane south, one week before some weather blew in. While it does get foul in November in the Alps, my experience was that the weather is relatively benign.
I fly on mostly sunny days, or if not fully sunny, there is usually a way to get above the clouds and enjoy clear air. On this stint I avoided wind of great consequence and was frankly surprised how many days there was little wind at all at altitude. If one subtracts for obvious low pressure periods in the Alps, I would say the weather is relatively equivalent to the Pyrenees, if not less windy on average. The Alps tend to slow down a lot of upper level winds by obstructing their path, whereas the Pyrenees merely channel them to accelerate and create a rotor and wave factory.
At the same token, crashes continue in the Alps at their normal pace, where at least half of them make no sense whatsoever. The Swiss react by shrugging, almost as if they can’t be bothered, or it was some foreigner engaging in an act of pure stupidity. The same occurs in the Rockies – with the idea that ‘pilots in the US come from long distances and do something blatantly silly on a nice day, owing to a lack of basic information’.
Once that is adjusted and pilots are trained for basic mountain flying (and flying an aircraft equipped for necessary altitude), then I would say that flying in the Alps is very pleasant… as long as the prop keeps spinning.
Garrett Fisher has published 23 books, 20 of which cover aviation. He blogs regularly about his flying adventures at www.garrettfisher.me
Above the Summit: An Antique Airplane Conquers the 4000ers of the Alps is available on Amazon in Europe and the USA.
